


urgent matters only

by humanveil



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Post-Avengers: Infinity War (Movie), Sickfic, Strangefamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 14:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16683466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: “The internet says he’s dying,” Peter says, glancing at his phone screen and skimming the search results. “Something about ca—”“I’m notdying,” Tony interjects, cutting Peter off before he can finish. “It’s just a headache.” He sits up, sends a glare toward the kid. “This is why you’re banned from Google.”





	urgent matters only

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this shortly after iw, forgot about it for months, and then thought two am on a wednesday was a good time to finish it. anyway. compliant with infinity war and set it some au where everything is (mostly) fine and no one is dead. 
> 
> enjoy!

Peter doesn’t notice it right away. Sitting in Tony’s lab, surrounded by his newest tech, his attention is focused on other things. He starts to pick up on it later, though. Starts to notice little oddities in Tony’s behaviour: the unusual sensitivity to sound, the stifled coughs, the way he calls out for FRIDAY to dim the lights. There’s sweat gathering at his forehead despite the cool temperature, and, mid-way through an explanation on his latest formula for web fluid, Peter catches Tony pull a little vial of pills from one of the draws, sees him swallow two. 

It’s obvious from then on that Mr. Stark is sick. The worry settles in immediately, Peter’s gaze flicking toward Tony every couple of minuets, bottom lip held between his teeth as he contemplates what to do. He should call someone, he thinks, only Doctor Banner isn’t at the Compound this weekend, and Doctor Strange has already warned him twice about his overzealous texting. Peter doesn’t think he’d be too happy to receive another one, even if he does think this falls under ‘urgent matters only.’

Mind preoccupied, Peter doesn’t see the screwdriver resting on the desk’s edge until it’s already falling to the ground, the clatter of metal against the concrete floor harsh and loud. He reaches for it instantly, already murmuring an apology, but the damage is already done. He can hear Tony swear under his breath, a quiet hiss escaping through his teeth. When Peter looks, Tony is grimacing, hands rubbing at his forehead in a futile attempt to ease the obvious pain. 

 _Shit_ , Peter thinks. “Mr. Stark—” He places the screwdriver back on the bench, steps closer to Tony. “Are you—I mean, I know you don’t like it when I—” He cuts off, shakes his head to stop the rambling, and tries again. “Are you okay?” 

It’s a stupid question. Peter has spent enough time with Tony to know that he’s going to say he’s fine. Tony is always fine, even when he’s obviously not, and Peter would find it admirable, really, if it weren’t such a pain in the ass. 

“Yeah, kid,” Tony tells him, but his brow is still furrowed; his voice lacking its usual strength.  

Peter has had more than his fair share of migraines. He knows what one looks like. 

“Why don’t you take a break,” he suggests, nodding toward the couch that’s shoved against the lab’s wall. It’d been Colonel Rhodes’ addition to the room.  _Damage control_ , he’d said, and Peter hadn’t understood it until he’d found Mr. Stark passed out atop the cushions one day, throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders and light snores filling the room: screwdriver still in hand and his latest project discarded in his lap. 

Tony starts to shake his head, but stops abruptly, grimacing again. “Really,” he tries to say, “‘m fine.”

Peter stares, stepping closer still. Standing like they are, he can see the greyish tinge to Tony’s skin, the deep, dark bags that sit below his eyes—obvious now that they’re no longer covered by Tony’s usual pair of sunglasses. He looks like he’s about to pass out, Peter thinks. Like he hasn’t slept in days. 

And, well. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t. It’s one of the things he’s come to learn about Mr. Stark. He doesn’t sleep, even less than Peter does. The memories, the trauma—they’re still there. Months have passed since Thanos’ demise, and Peter still has nightmares, flashbacks. He can still picture it so vividly: the fear-induced adrenaline, the desperation, the pure exhaustion. It’s hard to forget, to come back from, and Peter knows he’s not the only one who’s struggling. Knows because he’ll leave his room, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. When he’s ripped from rest by nightmares: heart pounding and body drenched in sweat. He’ll explore the Compound: will find a roof to sit on when he needs fresh air, needs open space and the feeling of freedom; will find a free training room when he needs to hit something, to rid himself of lingering frustration. Other times he’ll wander to the communal kitchen, will make himself hot chocolate and sit at the counter and do nothing else but breathe. Slow and steady, a reminder that he’s still here. Still alive. 

It’s on nights like that that he’ll find Tony, bleary eyed and hunched over, exhaustion written in every limb of his body, every line of his face. He’ll always be at the coffee machine, will always throw a look over his shoulder and grin when he sees Peter. Will almost always make a joke of it, try and pass it off as normal, but Peter will understand. Will get it because he’s there for the same reason.  

“I don’t need—” Tony tries to say, but Peter has already reached out. He takes hold of Tony’s arms, and it’s easy after that. As if the fight leaves Mr. Stark as soon as it has the opportunity to. 

It’s an awkward shuffle, but Peter moves them toward the couch, manages to get Tony to settle down amongst the cushion. His eyes shut almost immediately, his body leaning against the back, his face tilted upwards. Peter watches, contemplates. 

He knows there’s no way Mr. Stark is going to let him reach out and touch his forehead, so he doesn’t bother trying. Instead, he glances up to the roof—a habit he still hasn’t been able to kick—and calls, “FRIDAY, does Mr. Stark have a temperature?” 

Tony grumbles out a  _no_  around the same time FRIDAY calls back that yes, actually, he does have one, and the pit of worry in Peter’s stomach intensifies. He sits on the edge of the couch, careful not to brush Mr. Stark lest he disturb him, and grabs his phone from his pocket. Pulls up Google and opens a new tab before typing out Tony’s symptoms and pressing enter. 

He clicks on the first link—some dull coloured website that looks professional enough to seem reliable—and starts reading. It’s simple enough at first. Colds, flus, coughs. But the further Peter reads, the more worried he gets. Simple colds turn to chronic illnesses, to cancer, and by the time he sees the word  _death_  listed under ‘side effects’, he’s already worried past the point of being rational. He exits out, clicks on his message app and starts typing before he’s even really thought it through. 

It’s only a moment later that a portal opens up in the middle of the lab, the bright orange of Doctor Strange’s magic forcing Tony to crack an eye open. He groans at the sight. Musters the best glare he can manage and sends it toward Peter. “Not necessary,” he says, but he’s still half-lying on the couch. Still looks too sick for Peter’s comfort. 

Stephen spares him a glance before sending a pointed look Peter’s way. “You said it was urgent.” 

The words  _it is_  sit at the top of Peter’s tongue, but he swallows them. Reaches an arm out and tilts his phone toward Stephen as if it proves something before turning it back to himself. “The internet says he’s dying,” he says, skimming the search results for a second time. “Something about ca—”

“I’m not dying,” Tony interjects, cutting Peter off before he can finish. “It’s just a headache.” He sits up, sends another glare toward the kid. “This is why you’re banned from Google.”

Peter opens his mouth to defend himself, but the words get cut off as Doctor Strange steps further into the room, the portal closing behind him. Peter watches as he moves toward Tony, as Mr. Stark sits up straight. Stephen reaches out, the back of his hand touching Mr. Stark’s forehead: the gesture gentle, familiar. Peter is only half surprised when Tony’s only response is a quiet, resigned huff. 

It feels strangely intimate, watching them. Feels like he’s intruding on something, so Peter looks away, trails his gaze around the lab while Stephen does his thing. It’s been that way lately, he thinks. The closeness between Doctor Strange and Mr. Stark. He doesn’t think either of them will talk about it if he asks, so he hasn’t, but he does have questions. Speculations. 

Sitting with them now, all the answers seem obvious. 

Doctor Strange calls his name, draws him from his musings, and Peter snaps his head back toward the two of them. “Hm?”

“Water,” Stephen says, and his hand is still touching Tony’s face. “Go fetch a glass.” 

Peter nods and does as he’s told, leaving them alone as he goes to find the nearest glass. He doesn’t actually find one—seems to find everything _but_ —but he does manage to find bottled water and he figures it will do. Doubts Tony is going to accept it, anyway. 

He walks back toward Mr. Stark’s lab just in time to hear Doctor Strange announce, “You’ve got the flu,” in that no-nonsense, matter of fact way, and he hears Mr. Stark huff again as he walks back into the room, arm outstretched with the bottle of water. 

“I do not have—” Tony starts, but cuts off abruptly as he stands, hand lifting to cover his mouth as his expression morphs to a grimace. Peter watches as he steadies his footing, shuts his eyes, swallows. He knows that look, and it’s really no surprise when, a moment later, Tony is slipping past the both of them and dashing in the direction of the nearest bathroom. 

The sound of retching filters out to where Peter and Stephen still stand, and now it’s Peter’s turn to grimace. He drops his arm and cradles the water against his chest. Moves forward with the intention to help, but stops when Doctor Strange touches his arm. Pulls him back. Steps forward himself. 

He reappears not long after, Tony leaning against his side for support, arm twisted around Stephen’s waist in some sort of makeshift embrace. He looks even worse than before, Peter thinks. More exhausted.

“Fine,” Mr. Stark says, voice breathy and full of resignation. “I’ve got the flu.”

He punctuates it with a dramatic wave of his arm, and Peter looks between him and Doctor Strange.

“Told you it was urgent,” he murmurs, sort of joking but mostly serious. 

The look Stephen gives him is  _almost_  enough to make Peter smile.  

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos = ♡♡♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/irnstrk) / [tumblr](http://humanveil.tumblr.com/)


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